UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE  VEIL 

and  other 

POEMS 


By 
WALTER  DE  LA   MARE 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
1922 


COPYMGHT,   1922, 
BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 


PRINTED   IN   THK   UNHID   8TAT1S   QT   AMIRIOA 


1037 


NOTE 

SEVEN  of  the  poems  included  in  this  collection  were 
written  for  Drawings  by  Miss  Pamela  Bianco, 
and  were  first  published  by  Mr.  Heinemann  in  a 
volume  entitled  Flora.  The  author's  thanks  are 
due  to  Mr.  Sydney  Pawling  for  permission  to 
reprint  these  poems;  to  Mr.  Cyril  Beaumont  for 
the  use  of  'Tidings'  from  a  Play  for  Children, 
entitled  Crossings;  and,  for  permission  to  include 
several  other  poems,  to  the  Editors  of  the  London 
Mercury,  the  New  Republic,  the  Spectator,  the 
Nation,  the  Century  Magazine,  the  Cambridge 
Magazine,  the  Literary  Review,  the  Sphere,  the 
New  Statesman,  the  Bookman's  Journal,  the 
Broom,  the  Outlook,  the  Athenceum,  and  the 
Westminster  Gazette. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  IMP  WITHIN 3 

THE  OLD  ANGLER 5 

THE  WILLOW 10 

TITMOUSE 11 

THE  VEIL 12 

THE  FAIRY  IN  WINTER .13 

THE  FLOWER 14 

BEFORE  DAWN 15 

THE  SPECTRE 17 

THE  VOICE 18 

THE  HOUR-GLASS .     .     .19 

IN  THE  DOCK 20 

THE  WRECK     .     .  • .21 

THE  SUICIDE 22 

DRUGGED 23 

WHO'S  THAT? 25 

HOSPITAL, 26 

A  SIGN .28 

GOOD-BYE 30 

THE  MONOLOGUE 31 

AWAKE! .  34 

FORGIVENESS 35 

THE  MOTH 36 

NOT  THAT  WAY  .     .     .37 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CRAZED 39 

FOG 40 

SOTTO  VOCE   . 42 

THE  IMAGINATION'S  PRIDE 44 

THE  WANDERERS 46 

THE  CORNER  STONE 48 

THE  SPIRIT  OF  AIR 50 

THE  UNFINISHED  DREAM 51 

Music 54 

\      TIDINGS 56 

THE  SON  OF  MELANCHOLY 57 

THE  QUIET  ENEMY 60 

THE  FAMILIAR 61 

MAERCHEN 63 

GOLD 64 

MIRAGE 65 

FLOTSAM 67 

MOURN'ST  THOU  Now? 68 

THE  GALLIASS 69 

THE  DECOY 70 

SUNK  LYONESSE 71 

THE  CATECHISM 72 

FUTILITY 73 

BITTER  WATERS 74 

WHO? 76 

A  RIDDLE 77 

THE  OWL 79 

THE  LAST  COACHLOAD 80 

AN  EPITAPH  .  84 


*not  in   CollteteJ 


I 
THE  VEIL  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


THE  IMP  WITHIN 


OUSE  now,  my  dullard,  and  thy  wits  awake; 
'Tis  first  of  the  morning.  And  I  bid  thee  make — 
No,  not  a  vow;  we  have  munched  our  fill  of  these 
From  crock  of  bone-dry  crusts  and  mouse-gnawn 

cheese — 

Nay,  just  one  whisper  in  that  long,  long  ear — 
Awake;  rejoice.     Another  Day  is  here: — 

'A  virgin  wilderness,  which,  hour  by  hour, 
Mere  happy  idleness  shall  bring  to  flower. 
Barren  and  arid  though  its  sands  now  seem, 
Wherein  oasis  becks  not,  shines  no  stream, 
Yet  wake — and  lo,  'tis  lovelier  than  a  dream. 

'Plunge  on,  thy  every  footprint  shall  make  fair 
Its  thirsty  waste;  and  thy  foregone  despair 
Undarken  into  sweet  birds  in  the  air, 
Whose  coursing  wings  and  love-crazed  summoning 

cries 
Into  infinity  shall  attract  thine  eyes. 


THE  IMP  WITHIN 

*No  .  .  .  ?    Well,   lest  promise  in  performance 

faint, 

A  less  inviting  prospect  will  I  paint. 
I  bid  thee  adjure  thy  Yesterday,  and  say: 
"As  thou  wast,  Enemy,  so  be  To-day. — 
Immure  me  in  the  same  close  narrow  room; 
Be  hated  toil  the  lamp  to  light  its  gloom; 
Make  stubborn  my  pen;  sift  dust  into  my  ink; 
Forbid  mine  eyes  to  see,  my  brain  to  think. 
Scare  off  the  words  whereon  the  mind  is  set. 
Make  memory  the  power  to  forget. 
Constrain  imagination;  bind  its  wing; 
Forbid  the  unseen  Enchantresses  to  sing. 
Ay,  do  thy  worst!" 

'Vexed  Spectre,  prythee  smile. 
Even  though  that  yesterday  was  bleak  and  sour, 
Art  thou  a  slave  beneath  its  thong  to  cower? 
Thou  hast  survived.    And  hither  am  I — again, 
Kindling  with  mockery  thy  o'erlaboured  brain. 
Though  scant  the  moments  be  wherein  we  meet, 
Think,  what  dark  months  would  even  one  make 
sweet. 

Thy  o^iill?     Thy  paper?     Ah,  my  dear,  be  true. 
Come  quick  To-morrow.    Until  then,  Adieu.' 


THE  OLD  ANGLER 


A  WILIGHT  leaned  mirrored  in  a  pool 
Where  willow  boughs  swept  green  and  hoar, 

Silk-clear  the  water,  calm  and  cool, 
Silent  the  weedy  shore: 

There  in  abstracted,  brooding  mood 
One  fishing  sate.     His  painted  float 

Motionless  as  a  planet  stood; 
Motionless  his  boat. 

A  melancholy  soul  was  this, 

With  lantern  jaw,  gnarled  hand,  vague  eye; 
Huddled  in  pensive  solitariness 

He  had  fished  .existence  by. 

Empty  his  creel;  stolen  his  bait — 

Impassively  he  angled  on, 
Though  mist  now  showed  the  evening  late 

And   daylight   well-nigh   gone. 

Suddenly,  like  a  tongueless  bell, 

Downward  his  gaudy  cork  did  glide; 

A  deep,  low-gathering,  gentle  swell 
Spread  slowly  far  and  wide. 
5 


THE  OLD  ANGLER 

Wheeped  out  his  tackle  from  noiseless  winch, 
And  furtive  as  a  thief,  his  thumb, 

With  nerve  intense,  wound  inch  by  inch 
A  line  no  longer  numb. 

What  fabulous  spoil  could  thus  unplayed 
Gape  upward  to  a  mortal  air? — 

He  stoops  engrossed;  his  tanned  cheek  greyed; 
His  heart  stood  still:  for  there, 

Wondrously  fairing,  beneath  the  skin 

Of  secretly  bubbling  water  seen, 
Swims — not  the  silver  of  scale  and  fin — 

But  gold  immixt  with  green. 

Deeply  astir  in  oozy  bed, 

The  darkening  mirror  ripples  and  rocks: 
And  lo — a  wan-pale,  lovely  head, 

Hook  tangled  in  its  locks! 

Cold  from  her  haunt — a  Naiad  slim. 

Shoulder  and  cheek  gleamed  ivory  white; 
Though  now  faint  stars  stood  over  him, 

The  hour  hard  on  night. 

Her  green  eyes  gazed  like  one  half-blind 

In  sudden  radiance;  her  breast 
Breathed  the  sweet  air,  while  gently  twined, 

'Gainst  the  cold  water  pressed, 
6 


THE  OLD  ANGLER 

Her  lean  webbed  hands.     She  floated  there, 
Light  as  a  scentless  petalled  flower, 

Water-drops  dewing  from  her  hair 
In  tinkling  beadlike  shower. 

So  circling  sidelong,  her  tender  throat 
Uttered  a  grieving,  desolate  wail; 

Shrill  o'er  the  dark  pool  lapsed  its  note, 
Piteous  as  nightingale. 

Ceased  Echo.  And  he? — a  life's  remorse 
Welled  to  a  tongue  unapt  to  charm, 

But  never  a  word  broke  harsh  and  hoarse 
To  quiet  her  alarm. 

With  infinite  stealth  his  twitching  thumb 
Tugged  softly  at  the  tautened  gut, 

Bubble-light,  fair,  her  lips  now  dumb, 
She  moved,  and  struggled  not; 

But  with  set,  wild,  unearthly  eyes 

Pale-gleaming,  fixed  as  if  in  fear, 
She  couched  in  the  water,  with  quickening  sighs, 
And  floated  near. 

In  hollow  heaven  the  stars  were  at  play; 

Wan  glow-worms  greened  the  pool-side  grass; 
Dipped  the   wide-bellied   boat.     His   prey 

Gazed  on;  nor  breathed.    Alas! — 

7 


THE  OLD  ANGLER 

Long  sterile  years  had  come  and  gone; 

Youth,  like  a  distant  dream,  was  sped; 
Heart,  hope,  and  eyes  had  hungered  on.  .  .  . 

He  turned  a  shaking  head, 

And  clumsily  groped  amid  the  gold, 

Sleek  with  night  dews,  of  that  tangling  hair, 

Till  pricked  his  finger  keen  and  cold 
The  barb  imbedded  there. 

Teeth  clenched,  he  drew  his  knife — 'Snip,  snip,' — 
Groaned,  and  sate  shivering  back;   and  she, 

Treading  the  water  with  birdlike  dip, 
Shook  her  sweet  shoulders  free: 

Drew  backward,  smiling,  infatuate  fair, 

His  life's  disasters  in  her  eyes, 
All  longing  and  folly,  grief,  despair, 

Daydreams  and  mysteries. 

She  stooped  her  brow;  laid  low  her  cheek, 
And,  steering  on  that  silk-tressed  craft, 

Out  from  the  listening,  leaf-hung  creek, 
Tossed  up  her  chin,  and  laughed — 


THE  OLD  ANGLER 

A  mocking,  icy,  inhuman  note. 

One  instant  flashed  that  crystal  breast, 
Leaned,  and  was  gone.     Dead-still  the  boat: 

And  the  deep  dark  at  rest. 

Flits  moth  to  flower.    A  water-rat 
Noses  the  placid  ripple.     And  lo! 

Streams  a  lost  meteor.     Night  is  late, 
And  daybreak  zephyrs  flow.  .  .  . 

And  he — the  cheated?     Dusk  till  morn, 
Insensate,  even  of  hope  forsook, 

He  muttering   squats,   aloof,  forlorn, 
Dangling  a  baitless  hook. 


THE  WILLOW 


JLjEANS  now  the  fair  willow,  dreaming 

Amid  her  locks  of  green. 

In  the  driving  snow  she  was  parched  and  cold, 

And  in  midnight  hath  been 

Swept  by  blasts  of  the  void  night, 

Lashed  by  the  rains. 

Now  of  that  wintry  dark  and  bleak 

No  memory  remains. 

In  mute  desire  she  sways  softly; 

Thrilling  sap  up-flows; 

She  praises  God  in  her  beauty  and  grace, 

Whispers  delight.     And  there  flows 

A  delicate  wind  from  the  Southern  seas, 

Kissing  her  leaves.     She  sighs. 

While  the  birds  in  her  tresses  make  merry; 

Burns  the  Sun  in  the  skies. 


10 


TITMOUSE 


I 


.F  you  would  happy  company  win, 
Dangle  a  palm-nut  from  a  tree, 
Idly  in  green  to  sway  and  spin, 
Its  snow-pulped  kernel  for  bait;  and  see, 
A  nimble  titmouse  enter  in. 


Out  of  earth's  vast  unknown  of  air, 
Out  of  all  summer,  from  wave  to  wave, 
He'll  perch,  and  prank  his  feathers  fair, 
Jangle  a  glass-clear  wildering  stave, 
And  take  his  commons  there — 

This  tiny  son  of  life;  this  spright, 
By  momentary   Human  sought, 
Plume  will  his  wing  in  the  dappling  light, 
Clash  timbrel  shrill  and  gay — 
And  into  time's  enormous  nought, 
Sweet-fed,  will  flit  away. 


11 


THE  VEIL 


I 


THINK  and  think;  yet  still  I  fail- 
Why  does  this  lady  wear  a  veil? 
Why  thus  elect  to  mask  her  face 
Beneath  that  dainty  web  of  lace? 
The  tip  of  a  small  nose  I  see, 
And  two  red  lips,  set  curiously 
Like  twin-born  cherries  on  one  stem, 
And  yet  she  has  netted  even  them. 
Her  eyes,  it's  plain,  survey  with  ease 
Whatever  to  glance  upon  they  please. 
Yet,  whether  hazel,  grey,  or  blue, 
Or  that  even  lovelier  lilac  hue, 
I  cannot  guess:  why — why  deny 
Such  beauty  to  the  passer-by? 
Out  of  a  bush  a  nightingale 
May  expound  his  song;  beneath  that  veil 
A  happy  mouth  no  doubt  can  make 
English  sound  sweeter  for  its  sake. 
But  then,  why  muffle  in,  like  this, 
What  every  blossomy  wind  would  kiss? 
Why  in  that  little  night  disguise 
A  daybreak  face,  those  starry  eyes? 


12 


THE  FAIRY  IN  WINTER 

(For  a  drawing  by  Dorothy  Puvis  Lathrop) 

JL  HERE  was  a  Fairy — flake  of  winter — 
Who,  when  the  snow  came,  whispering,  Silence, 
Sister  crystal  to  crystal  sighing, 
Making  of  meadow  argent  palace, 

Night  a  star-sown  solitude, 
Cried  'neath  her  frozen  eaves,  'I  burn  here!' 

Wings  diaphanous,  beating  bee-like, 

Wand  within  fingers,  locks  enspangled, 

Icicle  foot,  lip  sharp  as  scarlet, 

She  lifted  her  eyes  in  her  pitch-black  hollow — 

Green  as  stalks  of  weeds  in  water — 

Breathed:  stirred. 

Rilled  from  her  heart  the  ichor,  coursing, 
Flamed  and  awoke  her  slumbering  magic. 
Softlier  than  moth's  her  pinions  trembled ; 
Out  into  blackness,  light-like,  she  flittered, 
Leaving  her  hollow  cold,  forsaken. 

In  air,  o'er  crystal,  rang  twangling  night-wind. 
Bare,  rimed  pine-woods  murmured  lament. 
13 


THE  FLOWER 


H< 


LORIZON  to  horizon,  lies  outspread 
The  tenting  firmament  of  day  and  night; 
Wherein  are  winds  at  play ;  and  planets  shed 
Amid  the  stars  their  gentle  gliding  light. 

The  huge  world's  sun  flames  on  the  snow-capped 

hills; 

Cindrous  his  heat  burns  in  the  sandy  plain ; 
With  myriad  spume-bows  roaring  ocean  swills 
The  cold  profuse  abundance  of  the  rain. 

And  man — a  transient  object  in  this  vast, 
Sighs  o'er  a  universe  transcending  thought, 
Afflicted  by  vague  bodings  of  the  past, 
Driven  toward  a  future,  unforeseen,  unsought. 

Yet,  see  him,  stooping  low  to  naked  weed 
That  meeks  its  blossom  in  his  anxious  eye, 
Mark  how  he  grieves,  as  if  his  heart  did  bleed, 
And  wheels  his  wondrous  features  to  the  sky ; 
As  if,  transfigured  by  so  small  a  grace, 
He  sought  Companion  in  earth's  dwelling-place. 


14 


BEFORE  DAWN 


4M-BERRIED  is  the  mistletoe 
With   globes    of   sheenless  grey, 
The  holly  mid  ten  thousand  thorns 
Smoulders  its  fires  away; 
And  in  the  manger  Jesu  sleeps 
This  Christmas'  Day. 

Bull  unto  bull  with  hollow  throat 
Makes  echo  every  hill, 
Cold  sheep  in  pastures  thick  with  snow 
The  air  with  bleatings  fill; 
While  of  his  mother's  heart  this  Babe 
Takes  His  sweet  will. 

All  flowers  and  butterflies  lie  hid, 
The  blackbird  and   the  thrush 
Pipe  but  a  little  as  they  flit 
Restless  from  bush  to  bush; 
Even  to  the  robin  Gabriel  hath 
Cried  softly,  'Hush!' 


BEFORE  DAWN 

Now  night  is  astir  with  burning  stars 
In  darkness   of  the  snow; 
Burdened  with  frankincense  and  myrrh 
And  gold  the  Strangers  go 
Into  a  dusk  where  one  dim  lamp 
Burns  faintly,  Lo! 

No  snowdrop  yet  its  small  head  nods, 
In  winds  of  winter  drear; 
No  lark  at  casement  in  the  sky 
Sings  matins   shrill   and  clear; 
Yet  in  this  frozen  mirk  the  Dawn 
Breathes,  Spring  is  here! 


16 


THE  SPECTRE 


I 


N  cloudy  quiet  of  the  day, 
While  thrush  and  robin  perched  mute  on  spray, 
A  spectre  by  the  window  sat, 
Brooding  thereat. 

He  marked  the  greenness  of  the  Spring, 
Daffodil  blowing,  bird  a-wing — 
Yet  dark  the  house  the  years  had  made 
Within  that  Shade. 

Blinded  the  rooms  wherein  no  foot  falls. 
Faded  the  portraits  on  the  walls. 
Reverberating,  shakes  the  air 
A  river  there. 

Coursing  in  flood,  its  infinite  roars; 
From  pit  to  pit  its  water  pours; 
And  he,  with  countenance  unmoved, 
Hears  cry: — 'Beloved, 

'Oh,  ere  the  day  be  utterly  spent, 
Return,  return,  from  banishment. 
The  night  thick-gathers.    Weep  a  prayer 
For  the  true  and  fair.' 

17 


THE  VOICE 


E  are  not  often  alone,  we  two/ 
Mused  a  secret  voice  in  my  ear, 
As  the  dying  hues  of  afternoon 
Lapsed  into  evening  drear. 

A  withered  leaf,  wafted  on  in  the  street, 
Like  a  wayless  spectre,  sighed; 
Aslant  on  the  roof-tops  a  sickly  moon 
Did  mutely  abide. 

Yet  waste  though  the  shallowing  day  might  seem, 
And  fainter  than  hope  its  rose, 
Strangely  that  speech  in  my  thoughts  welled  on; 
As  water  in-flows: 

Like  remembered  words  once  heard  in  a  room 
Wherein  death  kept  far-away  tryst; 
'Not  often  alone,  we  two;  but  thou, 
How  sorely  missed!' 


18 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

J.  HOU    who    know'st    all    the   sorrows    of   this 

earth — 

I  pray  Thee,  ponder,  ere  again  Thou  turn 
Thine  hour-glass  over  again,  since  one  sole  birth, 
To  poor  clay-cold  humanity,  makes  yearn 
A  heart  at  passion  with  life's  endless  coil. 
Thou  givest  thyself  too  strait  a  room  therein. 
For  so  divine  a  tree  too  poor  a  soil. 
For  so  great  agony  what  small  peace  to  win. 
Cast  from  that  Ark  of  Heaven  which  is  Thy  home 
The  raven  of  hell  may  wander  without  fear; 
But  sadly  wings  the  dove  o'er  floods  to  roam, 
Nought  but  one  tender  sprig  his  eyes  to  cheer. 
Nay,  Lord,  I  speak  in  parables.     But  see! 
Tis  stricken  Man  in  Men  that  pleads  with  Thee. 


19 


IN  THE  DOCK 

JL  ALLID,  mis-shapen  he  stands.    The  world's 

grimed  thumb, 

Now  hooked  securely  in  his  matted  hair, 
Has  haled  him  struggling  from  his  poisonous  slum 
And  flung  him  mute  as  fish  close-netted  there. 
His  bloodless  hands  entalon  that  iron  rail. 
He  gloats  in  beastlike  trance.     His  settling  eyes 
From  staring  face  to  face  rove  on — and  quail. 
Justice  for  carrion  pants;  and  these  the  flies. 
Voice  after  voice  in  smooth  impartial  drone 
Erects  horrific  in  his  darkening  brain 
A  timber  framework,  where  agape,  alone 
Bright  life  will  kiss  good-bye  the  cheek  of  Cain. 
Sudden  like  wolf  he  cries;  and  sweats  to  see 
When  howls  man's  soul,  it  howls  inaudibly. 


20 


THE  WRECK 

OTORM  and  unconscionable  winds  once  cast 

On  grinding  shingle,  masking  gap-toothed  rock, 

This  ancient  hulk.     Rent  hull,  and  broken  mast, 

She  sprawls  sand-mounded,  of  sea  birds  the  mock. 

Her  sailors,  drowned,  forgotten,  rot  in  mould, 

Or  hang  in  stagnant  quiet  of  the  deep; 

The  brave,  the  afraid  into  one  silence  sold; 

Their  end  a  memory  fainter  than  of  sleep. 

She  held  good  merchandise.     She  paced  in  pride 

The  uncharted  paths  men  trace  in  ocean's  foam. 

Now  laps  the  ripple  in  her  broken  side, 

And  zephyr  in  tamarisk  softly  whispers,  Home. 

The  dreamer  scans  her  in  the  sea-blue  air, 

And,  sipping  of  contrast,  finds  the  day  more  fair. 


21 


THE  SUICIDE 


'ID  these  night-hung  houses, 
Of  quiet,  starlit  stone, 
Breathe  not  a  whisper — 'Stay, 
Thou  unhappy  one; 
Whither  so  secret  away?' 

Sighed  not  the  unfriending  wind, 
Chill  with  nocturnal  dew, 
'Pause,  pause,  in  thy  haste, 
O  thou  distraught!     I  too 
Tryst  with  the  Atlantic  waste.* 

Steep  fell  the  drowsy  street; 
In  slumber  the  world  was  blind: 
Breathed  not  one  midnight  flower 
Peace  in  thy  broken  mind? — 
'Brief,  yet  sweet,  is  life's  hour.* 

Syllabled  thy  last  tide — 
By  as  dark  moon  stirred, 
And  doomed  to  forlorn  unrest— 
Not  one  compassionate  word?  .  . 
'Cold  is  this  breast.* 


22 


DRUGGED 


I 


J^ERT  in  his  chair, 
In  a  candle's  guttering  glow; 
His  bottle  empty, 
His  fire  sunk  loW; 
With  drug-sealed  lids  shut  fast, 
Unsated  mouth  ajar, 
This  darkened  phantasm  walks 
Where  nightmares  are: 

In  a  frenzy  of  life  and  light, 
Crisscross1 — a  menacing  throng — 
They  gibe,  they  squeal  at  the  stranger, 
Jostling  along, 
Their  faces  cadaverous  grey. 
While  on  high  from  an  attic  stare 
Horrors,  in  beauty  apparelled, 
Down  the  dark  air. 

A  stream  gurgles  over  its  stones, 
The  chambers  within  are  a-fire. 
Stumble  his  shadowy  feet 
Through  shine,  through  mire; 
And  the  flames  leap  higher. 

23 


DRUGGED 

In  vain  yelps  the  wainscot  mouse; 
In  vain  beats  the  hour; 
Vacant,  his  body  must  drowse 
Until  daybreak  flower — 

Staining  these  walls  with  its  rose, 

And  the  draughts  of  the  morning  shall  stir 

Cold  on  cold  brow,  cold  hands. 

And  the  wanderer 

Back  to  flesh  house  must  return. 

Lone  soul — in  horror  to  see, 

Than  dream  more  meagre  and  awful, 

Reality. 


24 


WHO'S  THAT? 


Wi 


HO'S  that?     Who's  that?  .  .  . 
Oh,  only  a  leaf  on  the  stone; 
And  the  sigh  of  the  air  in  the  fire. 

Yet  it  seemed,  as  I  sat, 
Came  company — not  my  own; 
Stood  there,  with  ardent  gaze  over  dark,  bowed 

shoulder  thrown 

Till  the  dwindling  flames  leaped  higher, 
And  showed  fantasy  flown. 

Yet  though  the  cheat  is  clear — 
From  transient  illusion  grown; 
In  the  vague  of  my  mind  those  eyes 

Still  haunt  me.     One  stands  so  near 

I  could  take  his  hand,  and  be  gone: — 

No  more  in  this  house  of  dreams  to  sojourn  aloof, 

alone : 

Could  sigh,  with  full  heart,  and  arise, 
And  choke,  'Lead  on.' 


25 


HOSPITAL 

WELCOME!     Enter!     This  is  the  Inn  at  the 

Cross  Roads, 

Sign  of  the  Rising  Sun,  of  the  World's  End: 
Ay,  0  Wanderer,  footsore,  weary,  forsaken, 
Knock,  and  we  will  open  to  thee — Friend. 

Gloomy  our  stairs  of  stone,  obscure  the  portal; 
Burdened  the  air  with  a  breath  from  the  further 

shore; 

Yet  in  our  courtyard  plays  an  invisible  fountain, 
Ever  flowers  unfading  nod  at  the  door. 

Ours  is  much  company,  and  yet  none  is  lonely; 
Some  with  a  smile  may  pay  and  some  with  a  sigh; 
So  all  be   healed,  restored,  contented — it  is  no 

matter — 
So  all  be  happy  at  heart  to  bid  good-bye. 

But  know,  our  clocks  are  the  world's ;  Night's  wings 

are  leaden, 
Pain  languidly  sports  with  the  hours;  have 

courage,  sir! 
We  wake  but  to  bring  thee  slumber,  our  drowsy 

syrups 

Sleep  beyond  dreams  on  the  weary  will  confer. 
26 


HOSPITAL 

Ghosts  may  be  ours;  but  gaze  thou  not  too  closely 
If  haply  in  chill  of  the  dark  thou  rouse  to  see 
One  silent  of  foot,  hooded,  and  hollow  of  visage, 
Pause,  with  secret  eyes,  to  peer  out  at  thee. 

He  is  the  Ancient  Tapster  of  this  Hostel, 
To  him  at  length  even  we  all  keys  must  resign; 
And  if  he  beckon,  Stranger,  thou  too  must  follow — 
Love  and  all  peace  be  thine. 


27 


A  SIGN 


H 


OW  shall  I  know  when  the  end  of  things  is 

coming? 

The  dark  swifts  flitting,  the  drone-bees  humming; 
The  fly  on  the  window-pane  bedazedly  strumming; 
Ice  on  the  waterbrooks  their  clear  chimes  dumb- 
ing— 
How  shall  I  know  that  the  end  of  things  is  coming? 

The  stars  in  their  stations  will  shine  glamorous  in 

the  black; 

Emptiness,  as  ever,  haunt  the  great  Star  Sack; 
And  Venus,  proud  and  beautiful,  go  down  to  meet 

the  day, 

Pale  in  phosphorescence  of  the  green  sea  spray — 
How  shall  I  know  that  the  end  of  things  is  coming? 

Head  asleep  on  pillow;  the  peewits  at  their  crying; 
A  strange  face  in  dreams  to  my  rapt  phantasma 

sighing; 

Silence  beyond  words  of  anguished  passion; 
Or   stammering   an   answer   in   the  tongue's  cold 

fashion — 
How  shall  I  know  that  the  end  of  things  is  coming? 

28 


A  SIGN 

Haply  on  strange  roads  I  shall  be,  the  moorland's 

peace  around  me; 
Or  counting  up  a  fortune  to  which  Destiny  hath 

bound  me; 

Or — Vanity  of  Vanities — the  honey  of  the  Fair; 
Or  a  greybeard,  lost  to  memory,  on  the  cobbles  in 

my  chair — 
How  shall  I  know  that  the  end  of  things  is  coming? 

The  drummers  will  be  drumming;  the  fiddlers  at 
their  thrumming; 

Nuns  at  their  beads;  the  mummers  at  their  mum- 
ming; 

Heaven's   solemn.  Seraph   stoopt  weary   o'er   his 
summing; 

The  palsied  fingers  plucking,  the  way-worn  feet 
numbing — 

And  the  end  of  things  coming. 


29 


GOOD-BYE 

JL  HE  last  of  last  words  spoken  is,  Good-bye — 
The  last  dismantled  flower  in  the  weed-grown  hedge, 
The  last  thin  rumour  of  a  feeble  bell  far  ringing, 
The  last  blind  rat  to  spurn  the  mildewed  rye. 

A  hardening  darkness  glasses  the  haunted  eye, 
Shines  into  nothing  the  watcher's  burnt-out  candle, 
Wreathes  into  scentless  nothing  the  wasting  incense, 
Faints  in  the  outer  silence  the  hunting  cry. 

Love  of  its  muted  music  breathes  no  sigh, 
Thought  in  her  ivory  tower  gropes  in  her  spinning, 
Toss  on  in  vain  the  whispering  trees  of  Eden, 
Last  of  all  last  words  spoken  is,  Good-bye. 


80 


THE  MONOLOGUE 

/1.LAS,  0  Lovely  One, 

Imprisoned  here, 
I  tap;  thou  answerest  not, 

I  doubt,  and  fear. 

Yet  transparent  as  glass  these  walls, 
If  thou  lean  near. 

Last  dusk,  at  those  high  bars 
There  came,  scarce-heard, 

Claws,   fluttering  feathers, 

Of  deluded  bird— 
With  one  shrill,  scared,  faint  note 
The  silence  stirred. 

Rests  in  that  corner, 

In  puff  of  dust,  a  straw — 
Vision  of  harvest-fields 

I  never  saw, 

Of  strange  green  streams  and  hills, 
Forbidden  by  law. 


31 


THE  MONOLOGUE 

These  things  I  whisper, 
For  I  see — in  mind — 
Thy  caged  cheek  whiten 

At  the  wail  of  wind, 
That  thin  breast  wasting;  unto 
Woe  resigned. 

Take  comfort,  listen! 

Once  we  twain  were  free; 
There  was  a  Country — 

Lost  the  memory  .  .  . 
Lay  thy  cold  brow  on  hand, 
And  dream  with  me. 

Awaits  me  torture, 

I  have  smelt  their  rack; 
From  spectral  groaning  wheel 

Have  turned  me  back; 
Thumbscrew  and  boot,  and  then- 

The  yawning  sack. 

Lean  closer,  then; 

Lay  palm  on  stony  wall. 
Let  but  thy  ghost  beneath 

Thine  eyelids  call: 
*Courage,  my  brother,'    Nought 

Can  then  appal. 


THE  MONOLOGUE 

Yet  coward,  coward  am  I, 

And  drink  I  must 
When  clanks  the  pannikin 

With  the  longed-for  crust; 
Though  heart  within  is  sour 

With  disgust. 

Long  hours  there  are, 

When  mutely  tapping — well, 
Is  it  to  Vacancy 

I  these  tidings  tell? 
Knock  these  numb  fingers  against 

An  empty  cell? 

Nay,  answer  not. 

Let  still  mere  longing  make 
Thy  presence  sure  to  me, 

While  in  doubt  I  shake: 
Be  but  my  Faith  in  thee, 

For  sanity's  sake. 


33 


AWAKE! 

W  HY  hath  the  rose  faded  and  fallen,  yet  these 

eyes  have  not  seen? 
Why  hath  the  bird  sung  shrill  in  the  tree — and 

this  mind  deaf  and  cold? 
Why  have  the  rains  of  summer  veiled  her  flowers 

with  their  sheen 
And  this  black  heart  untold? 

Here  is  calm  Autumn  now,  the  woodlands  quake, 
And,  where  this  splendour  of  death  lies  under  the 

tread, 

The  spectre  of  frost  will  stalk,  and  a  silence  make, 
And  snow's  white  shroud  be  spread. 

0  Self!     0  self!     Wake  from  thy  common  sleep! 
Fling  off  the  destroyer's  net.     He  hath  blinded 

and  bound  thee. 
In  nakedness  sit;  pierce  thy  stagnation,  and 

weep; 
Or  corrupt  in  thy  grave — all  Heaven  around 

thee. 


34 


FORGIVENESS 


THY  flamed  cheek, 
Those  locks  with  weeping  wet, 
Eyes  that,  forlorn  and  meek, 
On  mine  are  set. 

*Poor  hands,  poor  feeble  wings, 
Folded,  a-droop,  0  sad! 
See,  'tis  my  heart  that  sings 
To  make  thee  glad. 

'My  mouth  breathes  love,  thou  dear. 
All  that  I  am  and  know 
Is  thine.     My  breast — draw  near: 
Be  grieved  not  so!' 


35 


THE  MOTH 


Is 


LED  in  the  midnight  air, 
Musked  with  the  dark's  faint  bloom, 
Out  into  glooming  and  secret  haunts 
The  flame  cries,  'Come!' 

Lovely  in  dye  and  fan, 
A-tremble  in  shimmering  grace, 
A  moth  from  her  winter  swoon 
Uplifts  her  face: 

Stares  from  her  glamorous  eyes; 
Wafts  her  on  plumes  like  mist; 
In  ecstasy  swirls  and  sways 
To  her  strange  tryst. 


36 


NOT  THAT  WAY 


N 


0,  no.    Guard  thee.     Get  thee  gone. 

Not  that  way. 

See;  the  louring  clouds  glide  on, 
Skirting  West  to  South ;  and  see, 
The  green  light  under  that  sycamore  tree — 
Not  that  way. 

There  the  leaden  trumpets  blow, 

Solemn  and  slow. 
There  the  everlasting  walls 
Frown  above  the  waterfalls 

Silver  and  cold; 

Timelessly  old: 

Not  that  way. 

Not  toward  Death,  who,  stranger,  fairer, 
Than  any  siren  turns  his  head — 
Than   sea-couched   siren,   arched   with   rain- 
bows, 
Where  knell  the  waves  of  her  ocean  bed. 


37 


NOT  THAT  WAY 

Alas,  that  beauty  hangs  her  flowers 
For  lure  of  his  demoniac  powers: 
Alas,  that  from  these  eyes  should  dart 
Such  piercing  summons  to  thy  heart; 
That  mine  in  frenzy  of  longing  beats, 
Still  lusting  for  these  gross  deceits. 
Not  that  way! 


38 


CRAZED 


I 


KNOW  a  pool  where  nightshade  preens 
Her  poisonous  fruitage  in  the  moon; 
Where  the  frail  aspen  her  shadow  leans 
In  midnight  cold  a-swoon. 

I  know  a  meadow  flat  with  gold — 
A  million  million  burning  flowers 
In  noon-sun's  thirst  their  buds  unfold 
Beneath  his  blazing  showers. 

I  saw  a  crazed  face,  did  I, 
Stare  from  the  lattice  of  a  mill, 
While  the  lank  sails  clacked  idly  by 
High  on  the  windy  hill. 


39 


FOG 


TAGNANT  this  wintry  gloom.    Afar 
The  farm-cock  bugles  his  'Qui  vive?' 
The  towering  elms  are  lost  in  mist; 
Birds  in  the  thorn-trees  huddle  a- whist; 
The  mill-race  waters  grieve. 
Our  shrouded  day 
Dwindles  away 
To  final  black  of  eve. 

Beyond  these  shades  in  space  of  air 
Ride  exterrestrial  beings  by? 
Their  colours  burning  rich  and  fair, 
Where  noon's  sunned  valleys  lie? 
With  inaudible  music  are  they  sweet — 
Bell,  hoof,  soft  lapsing  cry? 

Turn  marvellous  faces,  each  to  each? — 
Lips  innocent  of  sigh, 
Or  groan  or  fear,  sorrow  and  grief, 
Clear  brow  and  falcon  eye; 
Bare  foot,  bare  shoulder  in  the  heat, 
And  hair  like  flax?     Do  their  horses  beat 
Their  way  through  wildernesses  infinite 
Of  starry-crested  trees,  blue  sward, 
40 


FOG 

And  gold-chasm'd  mountain,  steeply  shored 
O'er  lakes  of  sapphire  dye? 

Mingled  with  lisping  speech,  faint  laughter, 

Echoes  the  Phoenix'  scream  of  joyance 
Mounting  on  high? — 

Light-bathed  vistas  and  divine  sweet  mirth, 

Beyond  dream  of  spirits  penned  to  earth, 

Condemned  to  pine  and  die?  .  .  . 

Hath  serving  Nature,  bidden  of  the  gods, 
Thick-screened  Man's  narrow  sky, 
And  hung  these  Stygian  veils  of  fog 

To  hide  his  dingied  sty? — 
The  gods  who  yet,  at  mortal  birth, 

Bequeathed  him  Fantasy? 


41 


SOTTO  VOCE 

(To  Edward  Thomas) 

J.  HE  haze  of  noon  wanned  silver-grey 
The  soundless  mansion  of  the  sun; 
The  air  made  visible  in  his  ray, 
Like  molten  glass  from  furnace  run, 
Quivered  o'er  heat-baked  turf  and  stone 
And  the  flower  of  the  gorse  burned  on — 
Burned  softly  as  gold  of  a  child's  fair  hair 
Along  each  spiky  spray,  and  shed 
Almond-like  incense  in  the  air 
Whereon  our  senses  fed. 

At  foot — a  few  sparse  harebells:  blue 
And  still  as  were  the  friend's  dark  eyes 
That  dwelt  on  mine,  transfixed  through 
With  sudden  ecstatic  surmise. 

*Hst!'  he  cried  softly,  smiling,  and  lo, 
Stealing  amidst  that  maze  gold-green, 
I  heard  a  whispering  music  flow 
From  guileful  throat  of  bird,  unseen:— 


42 


SOTTO  VOCE 

So  delicate  the  straining  ear 
Scarce  carried  its  faint  syllabling 
Into  a  heart  caught-up  to  hear 
That  inmost  pondering 
Of  bird-like  self  with  self.    We  stood, 
In  happy  trance-like  solitude, 
Hearkening  a  lullay  grieved  and  sweet — 
As  when  on  isle  uncharted  beat 
'Gainst  coral  at  the  palm-tree's  root, 
With  brine-clear,  snow-white  foam  afloat, 
The  wailing,  not  of  water  or  wind — 
A  husht,  far,  wild,  divine  lament, 
When   Prospero   his  wizardry  bent 
Winged  Ariel  to  bind.  .  .  . 

Then  silence,  and  o'er-flooding  noon. 

I  raised  my  head;  smiled  too.     And  he — 

Moved  his  great  hand,  the  magic  gone — 

Gently  amused  to  see 

My  ignorant  wonderment.     He  sighed. 

'It  was  a  nightingale,'  he  said, 

That  sotto  voce  cons  the  song 

He'll  sing  when  dark  is  spread; 

And  Night's  vague  hours  are  sweet  and  long. 

And  we  are  laid  abed.' 


43 


THE  IMAGINATION'S  PRIDE 


B 


E  not  too  wildly  amorous  of  the  far, 

Nor  lure  thy  fantasy  to  its  utmost  scope. 
Read  by  a  taper  when  the  needling  star 

Burns  red  with  menace  in  heaven's  midnight 

cope. 
Friendly  thy  body:  guard  its  solitude. 

Sure  shelter  is  thy  heart.     It  once  had  rest 
Where  founts  miraculous  thy  lips  endewed, 

Yet  nought  loomed  further  than  thy  mother's 
breast. 

0  brave  adventure!     Ay,  at  danger  slake 

Thy  thirst,  lest  life  in  thee  should,  sickening, 

quail ; 
But  not  toward  nightmare  goad  a  mind  awake, 

Nor  to  forbidden  horizons  bend  thy  sail — 
Seductive  outskirts  whence  in  trance  prolonged 

Thy  gaze,  at  stretch  of  what  is  sane-secure, 
Dreams  out  on  steeps  by  shapes  demoniac  thronged 

And  vales  wherein  alone  the  dead  endure. 


44 


THE  IMAGINATION'S  PRIDE 

Nectarous  those  flowers,  yet  with  venom  sweet. 

Thick- juiced  with  poison  hang  those  fruits  that 

shine 
Where  sick  phantasmal  moonbeams  brood  and  beat, 

And  dark  imaginations  ripe  the  vine. 
Bethink  thee:  every  enticing  league  thou  wend 

Beyond  the  mark  where  life  its  bound  hath  set 
Will  lead  thee  at  length  where  human  pathways 
end 

And  the  dark  enemy  spreads  his  maddening  net. 

Comfort  thee,  comfort  thee.    Thy  Father  knows 

How  wild  man's  ardent  spirit,  fainting,  yearns 
For  mortal  glimpse  of  death's  immortal  rose, 

The  garden  where  the  invisible  blossom  burns. 
Humble  thy  trembling  knees;  confess  thy  pride; 

Be  weary.     0,  whithersoever  thy  vaunting  rove, 
His  deepest  wisdom  harbours  in  thy  side, 

In  thine  own  bosom  hides  His  utmost  love. 


45 


THE  WANDERERS 


Wi 


ITHIN  my  mind  two  spirits  strayed 
From  out  their  still  and  purer  air, 
And  there  a  moment's  sojourn  made; 
As  lovers  will  in  woodlands  bare. 
Nought  heeded  they  where  now  they  stood, 
Since  theirs  its  alien  solitude 
Beyond  imagination  fair. 

The  light  an  earthly  candle  gives 
When  it  is  quenched  leaves  only  dark; 
Theirs  yet  in  clear  remembrance  lives 
And,  still  within,  I  whispered,  'Hark;' 
As  one  who  faintly  oh  high  has  heard 
The  call  note  of  a  hidden  bird 
Even  sweeter  than  the  lark. 

Yet  'twas  their  silence  breathed  only  this — 
'I  love  you.'    As  if  flowers  might  say, 
'Such  is  our  natural  fragrantness;' 
Or  dewdrop  at  the  break  of  day 
Cry  'Thus  I  beam.'    Each  turned  a  head, 
And  each  its  own  clear  radiance  shed 
With  joy  and  peace  at  play. 
46 


THE  WANDERERS 

So  in  a  gloomy  London  street 

Princes  from  Eastern  realms  might  pause 

In  secret  converse,  then  retreat. 

Yet  without  haste  passed  these  from  sight; 

As  if  a  human  mind  were  not 

Wholly  a  dark  and  dismal  spot — 

At  least  in  their  own  light. 


47 


THE  CORNER  STONE 


OTERILE  these  stones 

By  time  in  ruin  laid. 

Yet  many  a  creeping  thing 

Its  haven  has  made 

In  these  least  crannies,  were  falls 

Dark's  dew,  and  noonday  shade. 

The  claw  of  the  tender  bird 
Finds  lodgment  here; 
Dye- winged  butterflies  poise; 
Emmet  and  beetle  steer 
Their  busy  course;  the  bee 
Drones,  laden,  near. 

Their  myriad-mirrored  eyes 
Great  day  reflect. 
By  their  exquisite  farings 
Is  this  granite  specked; 
Is  trodden  to  infinite  dust; 
By  gnawing  lichens  decked. 


48 


THE  CORNER  STONE 

Toward  what  eventual  dream 

Sleeps  its  cold  on, 

When  into  ultimate  dark 

These  lives  shall  be  gone, 

And  even  of  man  not  a  shadow  remain 

Of  all  he  has  done? 


49 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  AIR 


VjORAL  and  clear  emerald, 

And  amber  from  the  sea, 

Lilac-coloured  amethyst, 

Chalcedony; 

The  lovely  Spirit  of  Air 

Floats  on  a  cloud  and  doth  ride, 

Clad  in  the  beauties  of  earth 

Like  a  bride. 

So  doth  she  haunt  me;  and  words 
Tell  but  a  tithe  of  the  tale. 
Sings  all  the  sweetness  of  Spring 
Even  in  the  nightingale? 
Nay,  but  with  echoes  she  cries 
Of  the  valley  of  love; 
Dews  on  the  thorns  at  her  feet, 
And  darkness  above. 


50 


THE  UNFINISHED  DREAM 


R 


ARE-SWEET  the  air  in  that  unimagined 

country — 

My  spirit  had  wandered  far 
From  its  weary  body  close-enwrapt  in  slumber 
Where  its  home  and  earth-friends  are; 

A  milk-like  air — and  of  light  all  abundance; 

And  there  a  river  clear 
Painting  the  scene  like  a  picture  on  its  bosom, 

Green  foliage  drifting  near. 

No  sign  of  life  I  saw,  as  I  pressed  onward, 

Fish,  nor  beast,  nor  bird, 
Till  I  came  to  a  hill  clothed  in  flowers  to  its  summit, 

Then  shrill  small  voices  I  heard. 

And  I  saw  from  concealment  a  company  of  elf-folk 

With  faces  strangely  fair, 
Talking  their  unearthly  scattered  talk  together, 

A  bind  of  green-grasses  in  their  hair, 


51 


THE  UNFINISHED  DREAM 

Marvellously  gentle,  feater  far  than  children, 

In  gesture,  mien  and  speech, 
Hastening  onward  in  translucent  shafts  of  sun- 
shine, 

And  gossiping  each  with  each. 

Straw-light  their  locks,  on  neck  and  shoulder 
falling, 

Faint  of  almond  the  silks  they  wore, 
Spun  not  of  worm,  but  as  if  inwoven  of  moonbeams 

And  foam  on  rock-bound  shore; 

Like  lank-legged  grasshoppers  in  June-tide 
meadows, 

Amalillios  of  the  day, 
Hungrily  gazed  upon  by  me — a  stranger, 

In  unknown  regions  astray. 

Yet,  happy  beyond  words,  I  marked  their  sunlit 
faces, 

Stealing  soft  enchantment  from  their  eyes, 
Tears  in  my  own  confusing  their  email  image, 

Harkening  their  bead-like  cries. 


52 


THE  UNFINISHED  DREAM 

They  passed  me,  unseeing,  a  waft  of  flocking  linnets ; 

Sadly  I  fared  on  my  way; 
And  came  in  my  dream  to  a  dreamlike  habitation, 

Close-shut,  festooned  and  grey. 

Pausing,   I    gazed   at   the   porch    dust-still,   vine- 
wreathed, 

Worn  the  stone  steps  thereto, 
Mute  hung  its  bell,  whence  a  stony  head  looked 

downward, 
Grey  'gainst  the  sky's  pale-blue— 

Strange  to  me:  strange.  .  .  . 


53 


MUSIC 

\J  RESTLESS  fingers — not  that  music  make! 
Bidding  old  griefs  from  out  the  past  awake, 
And  pine  for  memory's  sake. 

Those  strings  thou  callest  from  quiet  mute  to  yearn, 
Of  other  hearts  did  hapless  secrets  learn, 
And  thy  strange  skill  will  turn 

To  uses  that  thy  bosom  dreams  not  of: 

Ay,  summon  from  their  dark  and  dreadful  grove 

The  chaunting,  pale-cheeked  votaries  of  love. 

Stay  now,  and  hearken!     From  that  far-away 
Cymbal  on  cymbal  beats,  the  fierce  horns  bray, 
Stars  in  their  sapphire  fade,  'tis  break  of  day. 

Green  are  those  meads,  foam-white  the  billow's 

crest, 

And  Night,  withdrawing  in  the  cavernous  West, 
Flings  back  her  shadow  on  the  salt  sea's  breast. 


54 


MUSIC 

Snake-haired,  snow-shouldered,  pure  as  flame  and 

dew, 
Her  strange  gaze  burning  slumbrous  eyelids 

through, 
Rises  the  Goddess  from  the  wave's  dark  blue. 


55 


TIDINGS 


J_jISTEN,  I  who  love  thee  well 
Have  travelled  far,  and  secrets  tell; 
Cold  the  moon  that  gleams  thine  eyes, 
Yet  beneath  her  further  skies 
Rests  for  thee,  a  paradise. 

I  have  plucked  a  flower  in  proof, 
Frail,  in  earthly  light  forsooth: 
See,  invisible  it  lies 
In  this  palm:  now  veil  thine  eyes: 
Quaff  its  fragrancies. 

Would  indeed  my  throat  had  skill 
To  breathe  thee  music,  faint  and  still- 
Music  learned  in  dreaming  deep 
In  those  lands,  from  Echo's  lip  ... 
'Twould  lull  thy  soul  to  sleep. 


56 


THE  SON  OF  MELANCHOLY 


Ur 


'NTO  blest  Melancholy's  house  one  happy  day 

I  took  my  way: 

Into  a  chamber  was  shown,  whence  could  be  seen 
Her  flowerless  garden,   dyed  with  sunlit  green 

Of  myrtle,  box,  and  bay. 

Cool  were  its  walls,  shade-mottled,  green  and  gold^ 

In  heavy  fold 
Hung   antique  tapestries,   from   whose  fruit   and 

flower 

Light  had  the  bright  hues  stolen,  hour  by  hour, 
And  time  worn  thin  and  old. 

Silence,  as  of  a  virginal  laid  aside, 

Did  there  abide. 

But  not  for  voice  or  music  was  I  fain, 
Only  to  see  a  long-loved  face  again — 

For  her  sole  company  sighed. 

And  while  I  waited,  giving  memory  praise, 

My  musing  gaze 

Lit  on  the  one  sole  picture  in  the  room, 
Which  hung,  as  if  in  hiding,  in  the  gloom 

From  evening's  stealing  rays. 
57 


THE  SON  OF  MELANCHOLY 

Framed  in  fast-fading  gilt,  a  child  gazed  there, 

Lovely  and  fair; 

A  face  whose  happiness  was  like  sunlight  spent 
On  some  poor  desolate  soul  in  banishment, 

Mutely  his  grief  to  share. 

Long,  long  I  stood  in  trance  of  that  glad  face, 

Striving  to  trace 

The  semblance  that,  disquieting,  it  bore 
To  one  whom  memory  could  not  restore, 

Nor  fix  in  time  and  space. 

Sunk  deep  in  brooding  thus,  a  voice  I  heard 

Whisper  its  word: 

I   turned — and,  stooping  in  the  threshold,  stood 
She — the  dark  mistress  of  my  solitude, 
Who  smiled,  nor  stirred. 

Her  ghost  gazed  darkly  from  her  pondering  eyes 

Charged  with  surmise; 

Challenging  mine,  between  mockery  and  fear, 
She  breathed  her  greeting,  ''Thou,  my  only  dear! 

Wherefore  such  heavy  sighs?' 


58 


THE  SON  OF  MELANCHOLY 

'But  this?'    One  instant  lids  her  scrutiny  veiled; 

Her  wan  cheek  paled. 

This  child?'  I  asked.     'Its  picture  brings  to  mind 
Remembrance  faint  and  far,  past  thought  to  find, 

And  yet  by  time  unstaled.' 

Smiling,  aloof,  she  turned  her  narrow  head, 
'Make  thou  my  face  thy  glass,'  she  cried  and  said. 
'What  would'st  thou  see  therein — thine  own,  or 

mine? 
0  foolish  one,  what  wonder  thou  did'st  pine? 

Long  thou  hast  loved  me;  yet  hast  absent  been. 
See  now:  Dark  night  hath  pressed  an  entrance  in. 
Jealous!  thou  dear?     Nay,  come;  by  taper's  beam 
Share  thou  this  pictured  Joy  with  me,  though 
nought  but  a  dream.' 


59 


THE  QUIET  ENEMY 


H 


EARKEN — now  the  hermit  bee 
Drones  a  quiet  thren  dy; 
Greening  on  the  stagnant  pool 
The  criss-cross  light  slants  silken-cool ; 
In  the  venomed  yew  tree  wings 
Preen  and  flit.    The  linnet  sings. 

Gradually  the  brave  sun 
Drops  to  a  day's  journey  done; 
In  the  marshy  flats  abide 
Mists  to  muffle  midnight-tide. 
Puffed  within  the  belfry  tower 
Hungry  owls  drowse  out  their  hour.  . 

Walk  in  beauty.     Vaunt  thy  rose. 
Flaunt  thy  transient  loveliness. 
Pace  for  pace  with  thee  there  goes 
A  shape  that  hath  not  come  to  bless. 

I  thine  enemy?  .  .  .  Nay,  nay. 
I  can  only  watch  and  wait 
Patient  treacherous  time  away, 
Hold  ajar  the  wicket  gate. 
60 


THE  FAMILIAR 


'A, 


you  far  away?* 
'Yea,  I  am  far — far; 
Where  the  green  wave  shelves  to  the  sand, 
And  the  rainbows  are ; 
And  an  ageless  sun  beats  fierce 
From  an  empty  sky: 
There,  0  thou  Shadow  forlorn, 
Is  the  wraith  of  thee,  I.' 

'Are  you  happy,  most  Lone?' 

'Happy,  forsooth! 

Who  am  eyes  of  the  air;  voice  of  the  foam; 

Ah,  happy  in  truth. 

My  hair  is  astream,  this  cheek 

Glistens  like  silver,  and  see, 

As  the  gold  to  the  dross,  the  ghost  in  the  mirk, 

I  am  calling  to  thee.' 


61 


THE  FAMILIAR 

'Nay,  I  am  bound. 

And  your  cry  faints  out  in  my  mind. 

Peace  not  on  earth  have  I  found, 

Yet  to  earth  am  resigned. 

Cease  thy  shrill  mockery,  Voice, 

Nor  answer  again.' 

'0  Master,  thick  cloud  shuts  thee  out 

And  cold  tempests  of  rain.' 


62 


Soi 


MAERCHEN 


)UNDLESS  the  moth-flit,  crisp  the  death-watch 

tick; 

Crazed  in  her  shaken  arbour  bird  did  sing; 
Slow  wreathed  the  grease  adown  from  soot-clogged 

wick: 
The  Cat  looked  long  and  softly  at  the  King. 

Mouse  frisked  and  scampered,  leapt,  gnawed, 

squeaked ; 

Small  at  the  window  looped  cowled  bat  a- wing; 
The  dim-lit  rafters  with  the  night-mist  reeked : 
The  Cat  looked  long  and  softly  at  the  King. 

O  wondrous  robe  enstarred,  in  night  dyed  deep: 
O  air  scarce-stirred  with  the  Court's  far  junketing: 
0  stagnant  Royalty — A-swoon?     Asleep? 
The  Cat  looked  long  and  softly  at  the  King. 


63 


GOLD 

OIGHED  the  wind  to  the  wheat: — 

*The  Queen  who  is  slumbering  there, 

Once  bewildered  the  rose; 

Scorned,  "Thou  un-fair!" 

Once,  from  that  bird-whirring  court, 

Ascended  the  ruinous  stair. 

Aloft,  on  that  weed-hung  turret,  suns 

Smote  on  her  hair — 

Of  a  gold  by  Archiac  sought, 

Of  a  gold  sea-hid, 

Of  a  gold  that  from  core  of  quartz 

No  flame  shall  bid 

Pour  into  light  of  the  air 

For  God's  Jews  to  see.' 

Mocked  the  wheat  to  the  wind — 
'Kiss  me!     Kiss  me!' 


64 


MIRAGE 

.  .  .  And  burned  the  topless  towers  of  Ilium 


Sn 


GRANGE  fabled  face!     From  sterile  shore  to 

shore 
O'er  plunging  seas,  thick-sprent  with  glistening 

brine, 
The  voyagers  of  the  World  with  sail  and  heavy  oar 

Have  sought  thy  shrine. 
Beauty  inexorable  hath  lured  them  on: 
Remote  unnamed  stars  enclustering  gleam — 
Burn  in  thy  flowered  locks,  though  creeping  day- 
break wan 

Prove  thee  but  dream. 

Noonday  to  night  the  enigma  of  thine  eyes 
Frets  with  desire  their  travel-wearied  brain, 
Till  in  the  vast  of  dark  the  ice-cold  moon  arise 

And  pour  them  peace  again; 
And  with  malign  mirage  uprears  an  isle 
Of  fountain  and  palm,  and  courts  of  jasmine  and 

rose, 

Whence  far  decoy  of  siren  throats  their  souls  be- 
guile, 

And  maddening  fragrance  flows. 

65 


Lo,  in  the  milken  light,  in  tissue  of  gold 
Thine  apparition  gathers  in  the  air — 
Nay,  but  the  seas  are  deep,  and  the  round  world  old, 
And  thou  art  named,  Despair. 


66 


FLOTSAM 


Sci 


BREAMED  the  far  sea-mew.    On  the  mirror- 
ing sands 

Bell-shrill  the  oyster-catchers.     Burned  the  sky. 
Couching  my  cheeks  upon  my  sun-scorched  hands, 
Down  from  bare  rock  I  gazed.     The  sea  swung  by. 

Dazzling  dark  blue  and  verdurous,  quiet  with  snow, 
Empty  with  loveliness,  with  music  a-roar, 
Her  billowing  summits  heaving  noon-aglow — 
Crashed  the  Atlantic  on  the  cliff-ringed  shore, 

Drowsed  by  the  tumult  of  that  moving  deep, 
Sense  into  outer  silence  fainted,  fled; 
And  rising  softly,  from  the  fields  of  sleep, 
Stole  to  my  eyes  a  lover  from  the  dead; 

Crying  an  incantation — learned,  Where?  When?  .  . 
White  swirled  the  foam,  a  fount,  a  blinding  gleam 
Of  ice-cold  breast,  cruel  eyes,  wild  mouth — and 

then 
A  still  dirge  echoing  on  from  dream  to  dream. 


67 


MOURN'ST  THOU  NOW? 

JLjONG  ago  from  radiant  palace, 
Dream-bemused,  in  flood  of  moon, 
Stole  the  princess  Seraphita 
Into  forest  gloom. 

Wail  of  hemlock;  cold  the  dewdrops; 
Danced  the  Dryads  in  the  chace; 
Heavy  hung  ambrosial  fragrance; 
Moonbeams  blanched  her  ravished  face. 

Frail  and  clear  the  notes  delusive; 
Mocking  phantoms  in  a  rout 
Thridded  the  night-cloistered  thickets, 
Wove  their  sorceries  in  and  out.  .  .  . 

Mourn'st  thou  now?     Or  do  thine  eyelids 
Frame  a  vision  dark,  divine, 
O'er  this  imp  of  star  and  wild-flower — 
Of  a  god  once  thine? 


68 


THE  GALLIASS 

ELL  me,  tell  me, 
Unknown  stranger, 
When  shall  I  sight  me 

That  tall  ship 

On  whose  flower-wreathed  counter  is  gilded, 
Sleep?' 

'Landsman,  landsman, 
Lynx  nor  kestrel 
Ne'er  shall  descry  from 

Ocean  steep 
That  midnight-stealing,  high-pooped  galliass,  Sleep! 

'Promise  me,  Stranger, 
Though  I  mark  not 
When  cold  night-tide's 

Shadows  creep, 
Thou  wilt  keep  unwavering  watch  for  Sleep' 

'Myriad  the  lights  are, 
Wayworn  landsman, 
Rocking  the  dark  through 

On  the  deep: 

She  alone  burns  none  to  prove  her  Sleep* 
69 


THE  DECOY 


Ti 


ELL  us,  0  pilgrim,  what  strange  She 
Lures  and  decoys  your  wanderings  on? 
Cheek,  eye,  brow,  lip,  you  scan  each  face, 
Smile,  ponder — and  are  gone. 

'Are  we  not  flesh  and  blood?     Mark  well, 
We  touch  you  with  our  hands.    We  speak 
A  tongue  that  may  earth's  secrets  tell: 
Why  further  will  you  seek?' 

'Far  have  I  come,  and  far  must  fare. 
Noon  and  night  and  morning-prime, 
I  search  the  long  road,  bleak  and  bare, 
That  fades  away  in  Time. 

'On  the  world's  brink  its  wild  weeds  shake, 
And  there  my  own  dust,  dark  with  dew, 
Burns  with  a  rose  that,  sleep  or  wake, 
Beacons  me — "Follow  true!" ' 

'Her  name,  crazed  soul?     And  her  degree? 
What  peace,  prize,  profit  in  her  breast?' 
'A  thousand  cheating  names  hath  she; 
And  none  fore-tokens  rest.' 
70 


SUNK  LYONESSE 


I 


N   sea-cold  Lyonesse, 
When  the  Sabbath   eve  shafts  down 
On  the  roofs,  walls,  belfries 
Of  the   foundered  town, 
The  Nereids  pluck  their  lyres 
Where  the  green  translucency  beats, 
And  with  motionless  eyes  at  gaze 
Make  minstrelsy  in  the  streets. 

And  the  ocean  water  stirs 
In  salt-worn  casemate  and  porch. 
Plies  the  blunt-snouted  fish 
With  fire  in  his  skull  for  torch. 
And  the  ringing  wires  resound; 
And  the  unearthly  lovely  weep, 
In  lament  of  the  music  they  make 
In  the  sullen  courts  of  sleep: 

Whose  marble  flowers  bloom  for  aye: 
And — lapped  by  the  moon-guiled  tide — 
Mock  their  carver  with  heart  of  stone, 
Caged  in  his  stone-ribbed  side. 


71 


THE    CATECHISM 


.AST  thou  then  nought  wiser  to  bring 
Than  worn-out  songs  of  moon  and  rose?' 
*Cracked  my  voice  and  broken  my  wing, 
God  knows.* 

'TelPst  thou  no  truth  of  the  life  that  is; 
Seek'st  thou  from  heaven  no  pitying  sign?' 
'Ask  thine  own  heart  these  mysteries, 
Not  mine.' 

'Where  then  the  faith  thou  hast  brought  to  seed? 
Where  the  sure  hope  thy  soul  would  feign?' 
'Never  ebbed   sweetness — even   out  of  a  weed — 
In  vain.' 

'Fool.    The  night   comes.  .  .  .  Tis  late.     Arise: 
Cold  lap  the  waters  of  Jordan  stream.' 
'Deep  be  their  flood  and  tranquil  thine  eyes 
With  a  dream.' 


72 


FUTILITY 


thou  strange  heart,  unto  thy  rest. 
Pine  now  no  more,  to  pine  in  vain. 
Doth  not  the  moon  on  heaven's  breast 
Call  the  floods  home  again? 

Doth  not  the  summer  faint  at  last? 
Do  not  her  restless  rivers  flow 
When  that  her  transient  day  is  past 
To  hide  them  in  ice  and  snow? 

All  this  —  thy  world  —  an  end  shall  make; 

Planet  to  sun  return  again; 

The  universe,  to  sleep  from  wake, 

In  a  last  peace  remain. 

Alas,  the  futility  of  care 

That,  spinning  thought  to  thought,  doth  weave 

An  idle  argument  on  the  air 

We  love  not,  nor  believe. 


73 


BITTER  WATERS 


I 


N  a  dense  wood,  a  drear  wood, 
Dark  water   is   flowing; 
Deep,  deep,  beyond  sounding, 
A  flood  ever  flowing. 

There  harbours  no  wild  bird, 

No  wanderer  strays  there; 
^Wreathed   in  mist,  sheds  pale   Ishtar 

Her  sorrowful  rays  there. 

Take  thy  net;  cast  thy  line; 

Manna  sweet  be  thy  baiting; 
Time's  desolate  ages 

Shall  still  find  thee  waiting 

For  quick  fish  to  rise  there, 

Or  butterfly  wooing, 
Or  flower's  honeyed  beauty, 

Or  wood-pigeon  cooing. 

Inland  wellsprings  are  sweet; 

But  to  lips,  parched  and  dry, 
Salt,  salt  is  the  savour 

Of  these;   faint  their  sigh. 
74 


BITTER  WATERS 

Bitter  Babylon's  waters. 

Zion,  distant  and  fair. 
We  hanged  up  our  harps 

On  the  trees  that  are  there. 


75 


WHO? 

IST  STRANGER.  W  HO  walks  with  us  on  the  hills? 

2ND  STRANGER.  I  cannot  see  for  the  mist. 

3RD  STRANGER.  Running  water  I  hear, 

Keeping   lugubrious  tryst 

With  its  cresses  and  grasses   and 

weeds, 

In   the  white   obscure  light  from 
the   sky. 

2ND  STRANGER.  Who  walks  with  us  on  the  hills? 

WILD  BIRD.        Ay  !  ...  Aye  !  .  .  .  Ay  !  .  .  . 


76 


A  RIDDLE 


J.  HE  mild  noon  air  of  Spring  again 
Lapped  shimmering  in  that  sea-lulled  lane. 
Hazel  was  budding;  wan  as  snow 
The   leafless   blackthorn  was   a-blow. 

A  chaffinch  clankt,  a  robin  woke 
An  eerie  stave  in  the  leafless  oak. 
Green  mocked  at  green;  lichen  and  moss 
The  rain-worn  slate  did  softly  emboss. 

From  out  her  winter  lair,  at  sigh 
Of  the  warm  South  wind,  a  butterfly 
Stepped,  quaffed  her  honey;  on  painted  fan 
Her   labyrinthine  flight  began. 

Wondrously  solemn,  golden  and  fair, 
The  high  sun's  rays  beat  everywhere; 
Yea,  touched  my  cheek  and  mouth,  as  if, 
Equal  with  stone,  to  me  'twould  give 
Its  light  and  life. 


77 


A  RIDDLE 

O  restless  thought 

Contented  not.     With  'Why'  distraught. 
Whom  asked  you  then  your  riddle  small?- 
'If  hither  came  no  man  at  all 

'Through  this  grey-green,  sea-haunted  lane, 
Would  it  mere  blackened  nought  remain? 
Strives  it  this  beauty  and  life  to  express 
Only  in  human  consciousness?' 

Oh,  rather,  idly  breaks  he  in 
To  an  Eden  innocent  of  sin; 
And,  prouder  than  to  be  afraid, 
Forgets  his  Maker  in  the  made. 


78 


THE  OWL 

WHAT  if  to  edge  of  dream, 
When  the  spirit  is  come, 
Shriek  the  hunting  owl, 
And  summon  it  home — 
To  the  fear-stirred  heart 
And  the  ancient  dread 
Of  man,  when  cold  root  or  stone 
Pillowed  roofless  head? 

Clangs  not  at  last  the  hour 

When  roof  shelters  not; 

And  the  ears  are  deaf, 

And  all  fears  forgot: 

Since  the  spirit  too  far  has  fared 

For  summoning  scream 

Of  any  strange  fowl  on  earth 

To  shatter  its  dream? 


79 


THE  LAST  COACHLOAD 

(To   Colin) 

R ASHED  through  the  woods  that  lumbering 

Coach.     The  dust 

Of  flinted  roads  bepowdering  felloe  and  hood. 
Its  gay  paint  cracked,  its  axles  red  with  rust, 
It  lunged,  lurched,  toppled  through  a  solitude 

Of  whispering  boughs,  and  feathery,  nid-nod  grass. 
Plodded  the  fetlocked  horses.     Glum  and  mum, 
Its  ancient  Coachman  recked  not  where  he  was, 
Nor  into  what  strange  haunt  his  wheels  were  come. 

Crumbling  the  leather  of  his  dangling  reins; 
Worn  to  a  cow's  tuft  his  stumped,  idle  whip; 
Sharp  eyes  of  beast  and  bird  in  the  trees'  green 

lanes 
Gleamed  out  like  stars  above  a  derelict  ship. 


80 


THE  LAST  COACHLOAD 

'Old    Father    Time— Time— Time!'    jeered    twit- 

tering  throat. 

A  squirrel  capered  on  the  leader's  rump, 
Slithered  a  weasel,  peered  a  thieflike  stoat, 
In  sandy  warren  beat  on  the  coney's  thump. 

Mute  as  a  mammet  in  his  saddle  sate 
The  hunched  Postilion,  clad  in  magpie  trim; 
Buzzed  the  bright  flies  around  his  hairless  pate; 
Yaffle  and  jay  squawked  mockery  at  him. 

Yet  marvellous  peace  and  amity  breathed  there. 
Tranquil  the  labyrinths  of  this  sundown  wood. 
Musking  its  chaces,  bloomed  the  brier-rose  fair; 
Spellbound  as  if  in  trance  the  pine-trees  stood. 

Through  moss,  and  pebbled  rut,  the  wheels  rasped 

on; 

That  Ancient  drowsing  on  his  box.    And  still 
The  bracken  track  with  glazing  sunbeams  shone; 
Laboured  the  horses,  straining  at  the  hill.  .  .  . 

But    now— a    verdurous    height    with    eve-shade 

sweet; 

Far,  far  to  West  the  Delectable  Mountains  glowed. 
Above,  Night's  canopy;  at  the  horses'  feet 
A  sea-like  honied  waste  of  flowers  flowed. 


81 


THE  LAST  COACHLOAD 

There  fell  a  pause  of  utter  quiet.    And — 
Out  from  one  murky  window  glanced  an  eye, 
Stole  from  the  other  a  lean,  groping  hand, 
The  padded  door  swung  open  with  a  sigh. 

And — Exeunt  Omnes!    None  to  ask  the  fare — 
A  myriad  human  Odds  in  a  last  release 
Leap  out  incontinent,  snuff  the  incensed  air; 
A  myriad  parched-up  voices  whisper,  'Peace.' 

On,  on,  and  on — a  stream,  a  flood,  they  flow. 
O  wondrous  vale  of  jocund  buds  and  bells! 
Like  vanishing  smoke  the  rainbow  legions 

glow, 
Yet  still  the  enravished  concourse  sweeps  and 

swells. 

All  journeying  done.    Rest  now  from  lash  and 

spur — 
Laughing  and  weeping,  shoulder  and  elbow — 

'twould  seem 

That  Coach  capacious  all  Infinity  were, 
And  these  the  fabulous  figments  of  a  dream. 


82 


THE  LAST  COACHLOAD 

Mad  for  escape;  frenzied  each  breathless  mote, 
Lest  rouse  the  Old  Enemy  from  his  death-still 

swoon, 

Lest  crack  that  whip  again — they  fly,  they  float, 
Scamper,  breathe — 'Paradise!'  abscond,  are 

gone.  .  .  . 


83 


AN  EPITAPH 


LAS 


1ST,  Stone,  a  little  yet; 
And  then  this  dust  forget. 
But  thou,  fair  Rose,  bloom  on. 
For  she  who  is  gone 

Was  lovely  too;  nor  would  she  grieve  to  be 
Sharing  in  solitude  her  dreams  with  thee. 


84 


THE  LIBRARY 

i  CALIFORNIA 

4-,,  -  - 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  isiBUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


MAY  22  1945^ 
I9/'4 


///A, 

JUN221965 


Form  L-0 
25711-2, '43(5205) 


DHL 


3 1975" 


S      R     L     F 
SEE  SPINE  FOR  BARCODE  NUMBER 


